


Something Stupid

by gaudyCrocuta



Category: Captain Planet and the Planeteers
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 19:37:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaudyCrocuta/pseuds/gaudyCrocuta
Summary: 35-year-old Graham Westlake applies for a somewhat dodgy-looking employment opportunity, but the reality of it is even stranger than he'd originally expected.





	Something Stupid

The building was locked, the curtains drawn, and what could be seen of the interior through a few minor gaps was shrouded in darkness. Graham Westlake checked his directions again, unsure if he had the right building. He had assurances that the offer was genuine, but wasn't entirely sure he'd gotten the location right.

 And wouldn't that just suck?

 “Hey, you here for the interview, too?”

 Graham looked up from the creased map clutched in his fist, startled. “Uh, yeah. Do I have the right building?”

 The stranger grinned at him— at least, Graham thought he did. He was gangly and kinda greasy, in clothes that seemed just a little too large, with a bandanna wrapped around the lower half of his face. “Yeah, this is the place, but you're half an hour early. A group of us are having coffee across the street. Wanna join us?”

 “Uh, sure,” Graham muttered, giving the stranger's bandanna a suspicious look.

 “Huh? I got something on my face?” He looked down, then back up at Graham. “Oh. Oh! Relax, I'm not gonna mug ya. I got a cleft palate and some fucked-up teeth, that's all.”

 “Oh, I'm... Sorry to hear that.” Graham wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to respond, but bandanna aside the guy seemed friendly enough. “Must be tough.”

 “Sometimes,” his new companion admitted. “But that's what the wrap's for. Name's Mike. You?”

 “Graham.”

 “Nice to meet ya! Like I said, there's a few of us across the street, if you wanna join us. I've been having a grand old time inducting Babs and Mr Pearce into the Fucked Up Face Club.”

 “Sure, why not? Guess we've got some time to burn.” The building his map had lead to was quiet and dark; it wouldn't hurt to grab something to eat to calm his nerves before the interview started.

 His grandfather had been the one to put the application in his hands. _Graham,_ he'd said, _I know the guy who's advertising this and he's good for the money,_ and _it'll be a really good opportunity for you._ _Send this in. You won't regret it._

 They crossed the street, entering the small coffeehouse there; Mike headed straight over to the large table by the window, where three other people were picking at their coffees or sifting through files. Mike's 'Fucked Up Face Club' friends were immediately apparent— the lone woman at the table had a face half-covered in acid burn scars, and glanced curiously up at him with her good eye, while a bulky man with yellowed skin like dried, cracked earth sipped his coffee, a hat and glasses obscuring most of his face.

 Graham took a moment to flag down the waiter and place an order, paying in a handful of crumpled bills before heading over to join Mike and his friends.

 The table's third occupant, a seemingly unscarred man with shoulder-length brown hair pulled back into a ratty ponytail, peered at Graham over his reading glasses. “Well, hello. Another potential co-worker?”

 “Seems that way.” Graham settled down at the seat left unoccupied once Mike had taken his. “Graham Westlake.”

 “Westlake? As in, _the_ Westlake? The real estate baron?”

 “Yeah, that's right. Good ol' grandpappy got in on the ground floor.”

 “I can't imagine what you'd be doing here,” ponytail said. “Do you even need the money?”

 “Grandpappy controls the family finances and cut me off at eighteen. Wants me to do the hard work to 'earn' my inheritance. Actually, he was the one to put me onto this, Mr...?”

 “Robert Hawthorne,” he answered. “Actually, I'm really just interested in paying off my student loans.”

 The woman laughed. “That's what you get for getting a degree in acting, Bobby.”

 “Ouch,” Graham said sympathetically. “And you are?”

 “Barbara Dearborn. I'm chasing a research grant.”

 “You're a scientist?”

 “Toxicologist. I study the stuff that does... _That_.” She jerked her head in the general direction of Mike and the guy with the craggy skin. “It's very difficult to get the money you need for research when the people paying you want you to tell them the opposite of what you find.”

 “I bet,” Graham muttered. “Me grandpappy's always complaining about _something_ they're not telling us.”

 “Why would—” Hawthorne broke off suddenly. “Oh, that scandal with the beachfront real estate.”

 “Yeah, pretty much. The contractors were practically wetting themselves to take his money, and they _knew_ what the problem was— they high-tailed it and then it all got washed away in the first light hurricane.”

 “They _knew_ about that?”

 “Yeah, they knew. That was the whole reason for the legal battle afterwards, the fact that they'd taken the contracts and buried all the information on how fragile the land itself was.” Graham snorted, shaking his head, then shifted in his seat to glance over at Mike. “So what's your story?”

 “Thalidomide,” Mike answered. “At least, I think it was. Mom kinda ditched me when I came out with a chunk of my face missing.”

 “That's depressing.”

 “Little bit. It's probably safe to assume she was poor and thought I was gonna die anyway. I don't really hold her in contempt for it.” Mike lifted his coffee cup and tucked it under the bandanna to sip from it. “Growing up was kinda rough, but now I've got a new family, and we all advocate for each other while we shout at the government for being so careless with miracle cures.”

 “Your lips to God's ears,” Graham responded. “What about you— uh, Pearce, right?”

 “Stephen Pearce.” He nodded, glasses glinting as he did. “I am just genuinely here for the hell of it. I don't really need the money— got a big, fat check from my former employers after we proved this horrible skin condition was their fault— but I sure am curious about this 'big, world shattering secret'.”

 “Hopefully it's not just another new pyramid scheme,” Barbara muttered.

 “Nah, it won't be,” Graham said dismissively as the waiter brought him his coffee. “Grandpappy said he knows the guy who posted the ad, and he's honest.”

 “That's this 'Theron' guy?” Hawthorne asked. When Graham nodded, he sighed with relief. “That's reassuring. It's a bit of a risk sometimes, these paper advertisements. You have to wonder if anyone actually verifies them before posting them on newsprint.”

 “I'm surprised there aren't more people here, really. The proposed salary really seems like it should've turned more heads.”

 “Maybe we're just the ones brave enough to take a calculated risk for it,” Mike mused. “Or desperate?”

 “You're probably in the roughest place out of all of us,” Pearce said. “You gotta have a lot of mouths to feed with your misfit family.”

 “Oh, yeah, definitely. But with just the first paycheck alone I could buy us enough food to last three months. Not to mention the improvements I can make to our living situation with money to remodel the building, or buy wheelchairs for everyone missing a leg.”

 “The way you said that makes it sound like a depressingly high number.” Hawthorne said.

 “Even one missing leg is a pretty depressing number of missing legs,” Mike informed him sagely.

 “Not to interrupt,” Barbara said. “But it looks like it's time.”

 Graham followed her gaze across the street, where the closed off building was now open and brightly lit. “Woah.”

 “Coulda sworn it wasn't like that a second ago...” Mike muttered.

 “Our earth-shattering secret,” Hawthorne joked as he stood up. “Someone over there is very fast at hitting light switches.”

 Graham barked out a laugh before throwing back his nearly too-hot coffee as the others cleared up their things and began to file out the door. Hawthorne fell into step with him as they crossed the street, Barbara and Mike surging ahead while Pearce lagged behind.

 The building's reception was clean and neat, a fairly open space dominated by a large desk and a handful of chairs. Nobody was immediately visible, so the five of them grouped up in the middle of the room to wait.

 They'd only been standing there for a couple of breaths before a voice floated out from behind the big reception desk. “Through the door, turn right, second door on the left. I'll be with you in a few minutes, I need to find the, uh. Oh, that's not good.”

 Graham stopped by the desk, purportedly to help but mostly just to satisfy his curiosity. “Is everything okay down there?”

 “Hm?! Oh, yes, it's fine!” The man behind the desk flashed him a smile so bright he felt like it should've temporarily blinded him. “My organisational skills are just a bit of a disaster. Nothing is wrong, absolutely nothing is melting, go ahead and get settled and I'll be in there as soon as I get these files in order.”

 “Alright,” Graham said peacefully, following his directions and shuffling a little faster to catch up.

 Grandpappy had shown him a grainy old photograph before he'd left, presumably one taken back in the 50s when he and Theron had been friends. _If this ain't the guy, then leave,_ grandpappy had said.

 One one hand, that was definitely the guy.

 On the other, said guy hadn't aged a day in thirty-five years.

 

* * *

 

“Something is definitely melting,” Graham told the others as he entered the room. He wasn't sure how to verbalise his concerns about their host, so he decided not to bring it up just yet.

Maybe this Theron was just a very... Youthful... 60-year-old. Or maybe his anxiety about the job posting was making him see things.

Graham took the chair to Mike's left, glancing around the room. It was all very corporate— very sterile. The conference table was vaguely oval, made of the same red-stained pine as the other wooden fixtures, and the chairs were surprisingly comfortable for someone of his size. Several jugs of iced water were scattered haphazardly around the table, with glasses marking six places— the five of them on one side, and an extra opposite that was likely for Theron.

Only six places? Graham wondered to himself. Of course, that could be explained by only the five of them being invited, but it was still a little strange... No, he must've seen them having coffee and set the table for that observation.

His train of thought was interrupted as Theron entered the room and shut the door behind him, carrying a small stack of manila folders. He made his way to the opposite side of the table and sat down facing them.

“Alright,” Theron said, his voice light and breezy. “We're all here, so let's get started, shall we?”

 He paused, fixing each of them with a significant look in turn.

 “Now, I _could_ pretend this was an actual corporate interview. We _could_ play at the 'dance right and you get the right to work for peanuts' game for hours. But that's not my style, and I'm sure you'll all appreciate some transparency. So here's the deal— you're hired, provided you don't walk out the door when I've said my piece.”

 “Just like that?” Barbara was frowning.

 “Just like that,” Theron repeated smoothly. “So, revelation number one: _magic is real_.”

 Before any of them could make a comment, Theron raised a hand and snapped his fingers; the water in the nearest jug leapt into the air and scattered into the shapes of two dozen angelfish, which drifted in a lazy circle at a wave of his hand.

 “Show-off,” Graham muttered. He had no idea where that had come from, and for a moment he felt a flash of pure fear— and then Theron _laughed_.

 “Me? Oh, you have _no idea_.” He flicked his fingers up, and the floating water fish leapt up before diving back down into the jug, dissolving back into formless water on impact. “Now let's just segue straight to revelation number two: the fae are also real, and I am one.”

 “Fae, as in, fairies?” Barbara asked.

 “Yes, with all that human mythology implies.”

 “Tiny people with butterfly wings who live in trees?” Mike scoffed.

 “I think he means the whole, trickery and curses and otherworldly abductions thing, actually,” Hawthorne said, looking a little green.

 “The... The _what_?”

 “My people,” Theron said, voice carefully devoid of tone, “are not _human_. They have a very different idea of what is and isn't morally reprehensible. Death, for us, is not permanent unless we will it, and all suffering is temporary to a species whose oldest members _remember_ the dawn of time.” He shifted in his seat, folding his arms over the manila folders in front of him.

 An uneasy silence fell over the humans at the table as they each processed what that meant. Barbara, Hawthorne and Mike were varying degrees of upset, but Pearce just looked thoughtful.

 A thought struck Graham suddenly, one the bubbled out of his mouth nearly the moment it occurred to him. “Well, this one can't be too bad, since I'm pretty sure he helped grandpappy raise me the first couple years.”

 Graham wasn't sure where that memory came from, but he was suddenly very certain of its veracity. The look on Theron's face— the grin trying to break free of his carefully schooled expression— made it clear it he wasn't that far off the mark.

 “I'm surprised you remember that. You were _so small_.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “I don't want to get too bogged down on the fae thing. Odds are, you won't actually meet any that aren't me, but point three still concerns them: there are two distinct factions within the faery population.

“One is mostly ambivalent about your presence, and the other wants to drive you all to extinction. Respectively, they are the Court of the Earth, and the Court of Heaven. The Court of the Earth is more or less responsible for humanity's continued existence— but a lot of it hinges on the fact that my mother, who leads it, indulges me to spite my father.”

 Theron held up a finger to silence them before they could start asking them questions. “The Courts themselves and their operations are not necessary knowledge— because number four is _me_.

“My mother is Gaia, Queen of the Earthen Court. My father is Uranus, King of Heaven's Court. And as such, I cannot be bound by the rules of _either_ Court. One one hand, it made me a bit of a social pariah among my people, but on the other... Unlike my full-blooded compatriots, I am free to interfere with humanity as I please. I showed your most distant ancestors how to light their first fires; I planted the seeds of art and science in your minds and supported you as you learned and grew.”

 “So essentially, this is your fault.” Mike's voice was light rather than accusatory, but the words themselves still made Theron flinch.

 “It's absolutely my fault,” Theron admitted, eyes downcast. “And thus, it falls on _me_ to fix it. The other fae would be happy to see humans extinct and the world returned to nature, but... I am fond of you. You're young and kind of dumb, but I think you are worth fighting for.

“Which leads us, finally, to number five: _we are rapidly approaching terminal velocity_.”

 “The Cold War?” Barbara asked.

 “...No. The Soviet Union is on the brink of collapse, and the Cold War will be over in just a few short years. Our real enemy is the cheap and shoddy industrial practices of the developed world. Seveso, the Amoco Cadiz, the OK Tedi mine, the Bhopal disaster, Chernobyl, Hanford... I'm sure you're all familiar.” Theron sighed heavily. “And once the balance has been tipped far enough, Uranus has the right to wipe you all out to protect the planet and our people. And while I've tried every reasonable course of action I can think of— from funding research to supporting activism and even lobbying for change myself— I am very rapidly running out of options.

“So! It's time to try something stupid.”

 Theron raised a hand and made a gesture; the manila folders he'd been nursing lifted from the table, and placed themselves in front of the humans.

 “Are those... Scorch marks?” Hawthorne asked as he picked up the folder that had settled in front of him.

 “Ignore the scorch marks,” Theron replied cheerfully, light bulb bright smile flashing at them.

 Graham opened his own folder and leafed through the pages inside. It was a fairly straightforward proposal; Theron was taking a page out of their comic books, banking on capturing the imaginations of the youth rather than continuing to plead with the adults currently ruling the world. What he needed were warm bodies— people unattached to the faery Courts, who could act under their own power without being subjected to restrictive laws concerning interference with humanity.

 The first step of the plan concerned the hiring of free actors to play the bad guys, who were to insinuate themselves into the current power structures and begin wreaking havoc, deliberately blowing their actions out of proportion.

 The second step involved collecting a small team of heroic characters, who would be commissioned to confront the villains and perform outreach among the general population. They would be given the power to summon a 'superhero'— Theron in disguise— who would repair damage done by the villainous team at their behest.

 Theron's mother had agreed to play the benevolent yet distant 'spirit of the earth'; at some point it could be assumed that Uranus himself would become involved in an antagonistic capacity.

 It was all very logical, and completely insane.

 “No wonder you're promising such a huge salary,” Pearce said. He'd been pretty quiet so far, seriously considering the options laid out before him. “It's not about whether or not we're desperate, is it? It's about how willing we are to take a bullet for the sake of humanity. To be the _villains_ that blow up what's happening to extremes in attempt to wake them up.”

 Mike made a hissing sound beneath his bandanna. “How fucked are we, if we agree to this? Because if we end up in prison...”

 “You won't,” Theron said quietly. “Magic is real, remember? Nobody will ever connect you with the personas we'll create for you to play.”

 “I'll ask the next obvious thing,” Barbara said. “Why a superhero?”

 “They've had a real resurgence lately, as far as I can tell,” Graham told her. “It's all my son ever talks about— _Batman_ , _Superman_ , the _X-Men_.”

 Theron nodded. “It also gives me leave to make sure every... 'Incident' has a happy ending. There are definitely comics that don't fall into that trend, but people won't think too much about it if such a thing were to begin playing out in real life.”

 “So regardless of what we do, no lasting harm will be experienced?” Hawthorne looked like he was very carefully considering it.

 “You have my word. You'll be required to run your plans by me before you can put them into action for that very reason. The bulk of humanity is not responsible for the problem; the minority that _is_ will be your focus.” Theron sighed. “This isn't... _Ideal_. But I really have exhausted every other option, and I can't keep getting between Gaia and Uranus to keep your people alive. It's been a very... _Tense_ few million years, and I'm running out of excuses. Either we convince humanity to find a way to save itself, or...” He let one of his hands hit the table with a surprisingly solid _thump_.

 “It can't really be that dire, can it?”

 “Can't it?” Mike asked bluntly. “You've obviously lived a pretty sheltered life, with all your teeth in the right place and no horrible skin conditions.”

 “Huh,” Hawthorne said, but he was clearly thinking about it.

 Pearce shut his folder with a decisive _thwap_. “Welp, I'm in. If there's a way to prevent accidents like mine happening again and again, then I'll do whatever it takes. I want a bad-ass villain name, though, like _Count Geiger_ or _Duke Nukem_.”

 “The more I think about it, the clearer it is that grandpappy sent me here because he couldn't do it himself. So I'm in, too.” Graham inhaled, steeling himself. This wasn't going to be easy, but... It felt like it was the right thing to do. And he knew his grandfather, if he were any younger, would've signed up without a second thought in his place.

 “I do this crazy bullshit for you, and you take care of my family. Agreed?” Mike's voice was sharp, but the eyes peering over his mask at Theron were sharper.

 “You have my word.”

 “Then I'm in, too.”

Barbara laughed. “I don't think it's possible for me to turn down a practically unlimited research grant. Oh, I know! I want to be a mad scientist villain! That'd be such a fun look to work with.”

The four of them turned kind of expectantly towards Hawthorne. He was tapping his fingers against the stained wood of the table, his gaze firmly fixed on Theron.

“It's a lot of money,” Theron said mildly.

“It is _so much money_.” He still didn't look too sure.

“Hey, Bobby,” Barbara said, leaning over to poke him in the shoulder. When he turned to look at her, she said, very seriously: “You could put that stupid acting degree to use.”

He stared at her for a moment, and then began to laugh. “Sure, why not. In for a penny, I guess!”

 

* * *

 

The next forty minutes were a blur for Graham. Anxiety threatened to overwhelm him, even though he was sure he wasn't having second thoughts. Rather, he felt as though he was standing on a precipice, about to dive headfirst into into the unknown.

It was a lot to process all at once.

The others, however, were a whirlwind of discussion; from Mike trying to extract promises of protection for his family, to Hawthorne trying to get more information on the part he wanted to play, to Barbara's somewhat invasive questions about faery biology.

Theron summoned contracts for each of them, and went over the language in each; they laid out the terms of their employment, their protections and benefits. It was remarkably straightforward language, but then, Theron wasn't a lawyer or a traditional faery.

And he needed them, which made any attempt to mess with them a seriously dangerous option for him.

Finally, they'd each ended up with hotel card keys for a place a few blocks up the road and tickets for a flight to a place he'd never heard of on Friday. Theron had gently ushered them out, urging them to collect the necessary possessions and put their affairs in order for an extended stay out of the country.

Graham hung back as the others made their way down the street in the mid-afternoon light. He was still grappling with the sudden connection between his vague childhood memories of a grinning babysitter with some outrageous magic tricks, and...

He'd gone back to the conference room before he'd really thought about it, leaning against the doorway. Theron was still inside, sorting out his papers, a pair of rectangular reading glasses perched a little precariously on his nose.

“Still here?” It was a stupid question, but he wasn't sure how else to start this conversation.

Theron set the papers down and sat back in his seat, giving Graham a gentle smile as he peered over the lenses. “You wanted to talk to me.”

And he probably already knew what Graham wanted to ask, but he was already committed. “How come you never came back?”

Theron was quiet for a moment. “Our relationship would've put his custody of you in jeopardy.”

Graham scoffed. “That can't be right.”

“No? Two men living together with a child, in the 50s? One person finds out, and we're child predators and you're in foster care.” Theron shook his head. “He'd just lost his only child. Losing you as well would've killed him.”

Graham fell silent. He wasn't wrong. Even now, over thirty years later, that would still be the end result of such a situation. But that still didn't make it _fair_. “...Everything he did, he did because of you. You know that, right?”

“Mm, I do. And I'll never forget that.” A pause. “It's a pity it isn't physically possible for me to seduce _every_ person whose mind I'd need to change, hm?”

Graham spluttered, torn between horror and laughter, and just like that, the mood was broken.

“Graham. Go find your hotel room.” Theron was smiling, but his voice was firm. “Call Lucas, get your things together for the flight on Friday. We'll have plenty of time to catch up, now.”

“Yeah,” Graham muttered. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”

“I usually am.”

“You're gonna be insufferable to work with, aren't you?”

“I have it on pretty good authority that's what most people love about me.”

 

 

 


End file.
